


a gallon of orange crush

by xXstaystillXx



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23547877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXstaystillXx/pseuds/xXstaystillXx
Summary: “Asshole,” he grits, wiggles his hips and gets you gasping instead, like this is some dumb sibling rivalry tradeoff thing, a spitball fight.“Your asshole, actually.”“Gross.”
Relationships: Gerard Way/Mikey Way
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	a gallon of orange crush

**Author's Note:**

> consider this like. 2001 at the very very latest

He’s straddling you. You’ve got your dick out, harder than you’d ever feel comfortable admitting out loud; you’re practically fucking straining for him and it’s a little embarrassing, honestly, how transparent it is that you think he’s the hottest thing on two legs. You can’t touch him yet because he said not to— you’d leaned in and fisted his dick loosely and started to pump it and he gasped so pretty, said _wait no wait god dammit Mikey do you want to do this or not_ all in a rush— so your hands are balling up the topsheet to keep them away from his skin. 

Head bowed, hair a ruffed-up black fold over his face like the top flap on an envelope; peeks of his bright pink cheeks showing through, his bit-and-worried lower lip. He fumbles the little bottle of lube you slipped into your pocket at Walgreen's without paying for two weeks ago (and whoo, boy, have these been some slippery fun two weeks), pours an unsteady glop over two of his fingers. You hear the sheet’s elastic waistband snap up off the corner of the mattress from how hard you’re holding it. 

“So that’s why you spent an hour and a half in the shower,” you say, dazed, literally feeling punch-drunk, love-drunk, maybe, and he bites his lip and looks at your from under his eyebrows (and when he does that it makes his eyelashes crease up against his lower lid, his forehead wrinkle at the top, you see that look in your wet dreams, you swear). 

“Maybe,” is all he says, and then he’s reaching behind himself and _you_ almost feel it when he slips the first finger inside, just from the pinpoint-perfect expression he makes. 

Voice thick, “You’re gonna kill me,” your forehead against his shoulder so you can watch his wrist work (the motion of his fingers hilariously censored by his dick, like those scenes in movies where someone’s naked except for a strategically placed potted plant, except— well— not like that at all because you’re watching his dick bob and twitch). 

He’s always had this weird way of doing it, doesn’t try and imitate getting fucked like you think he’s supposed to; keeps his fingers sunk into himself to the knuckle, won't pull in-out, just curls and strokes heavy at his insides, air puffing from his mouth in accidental, shocked little gasps every time the bones of his hands roll, grinding at his sweet spot. It’s so fucking hot, yeah, duh, but it’s weird— you’ve never seen it in, like, porn or anything, just him, yet it gives you deja-vu to watch him do it—

Oh, holy shit. 

“Did you fuck Miranda Keerly?” you blurt, pulling back to look at him, and he’s mid-moan when his face quirks into confusion, eyebrows coming together. It’s kind of really funny; if you weren’t already laughing at yourself for asking him _now_ you’d crack up just at that face. 

“What?” he says, goes to pull his fingers out but you pin his bicep to his side.

“No, fuck, don’t— just ignore me.” 

He makes a face. 

“Fine, okay, like,” you say, laughter biting at the edges of your words, “the way you. Y’know. She did it the same way, and I’ve never—” 

“Did _you_ fuck Miranda Keerly?” he says, and from his tone you know exactly what he’s asking, and shit, of course, of course he did. 

“You’re kidding me.” 

He shifts on his haunches, and you let go of his arm as fast as you can because it’s really weird to make him keep fingering himself right now— like, you want to get on with it, you very badly want to if the feeling that your balls are about to explode is anything to go by, but you’ve gotta address this shit first. 

“I think I’m supposed to say that to you, man, she’s in my year, the fuck are you doing with a girl that much old—” 

“We screwed around with the same goddamn girl?” you interrupt, (ignoring that he’s only weirded out by a four-year age gap when it’s not your four-year age gap, apparently), and he looks at you, goes _pfft_ , mouth twisted up. 

“God, we did,” you groan, grinning, “like— Jesus, dude, she didn't even get me off, just sucked me for five minutes and said—” 

“And said she was ‘bored,’ right?” 

“No,” you say, “No way. She blueballed us the same way?” 

“Then, uh. Fingered herself,” he says, and puts his face in his hands— hand, actually, winces away from the one just in time to avoid smearing lube through his bangs. 

You snort out loud, a stupid, giggly noise. “Did that same, like, _thing_ you do, with the— pressing, or whatever, I don’t know. She sat there and fingered herself and stared at me while I jerked off. So creepy.” 

“Goth girls,” he mutters, muffled into his palm, “never again.” 

“And you copped her freakin’ moves.”

He peeks at you through his fingers. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“Hey,” you say, and your chest is still jumping from how hard you’re trying not to just fall into hysterics, this is so fucking typical, “whatever works, man.” 

“Quit grinning at me like that.” 

“Never.” 

“Never?” 

“Never,” you say, and grab his wrist, drag his hand down between his legs, “never, I promise, can we get this show on the fucking road?” 

He socks you in the arm with his free hand and gets back to work. 

When you’re finally, finally in him— hot, his feverflush of body heat about melting your dick off, so goddamn velvety and slick and _good_ you’re having to dig your teeth into the side of your hand to keep from popping off the second he sinks down, the little bolt of pain just enough to keep you anchored— he goes “I give better head than Miranda, right?”

“What? Yeah,” you say, automatic before your brain even catches up, unlatching your mouth from the side of your hand and leaving a string of spit dangling off your chin. “Wait— _what?_ ”

“I,” he says, voice cracking, not in a bad way, not _I’m crying_ but a _I’m trying to hold a conversation during the middle of sex like an idiot_ kind of voice crack, “forget it, bad joke, I shouldn’t—” 

“Shut up,” you say, grinning again in spite of yourself, the things he does to you, “are you really jealous of me getting a piss-poor blowjob from some chick?” 

He goes “No!” too-quick and you settle your hands on his waist, nose up against his face so your cheekbones are rubbing together and your mouth’s almost at his ear. Silk-fine stray hairs sticking to your eyelids. 

“You’re such a priss, you did it too, that’s kind of the whole thing,” you say, and pull him down as you grind up, trying to fluster him a little (which is like saying you cut off your nose to spite your face because _your_ brain skips a beat when he tenses up and flutters around you). 

“I’m not, I’m not jealous”, he insists, looping his arms around your shoulders, his breath hot on your earlobe, exactly like how your breath’s gotta be on his. “Just wondering if— _ffuck,_ Mikes,” cutting himself off when you buck up. His dick spurts a little drip of pre against your stomach. 

“Wondering what?”

“Asshole,” he grits, wiggles his hips and gets you gasping, like this is some dumb sibling rivalry tradeoff thing, a spitball fight. 

“Your asshole, actually.” 

“Gross.” 

“You’re gross," you shoot back, instinct, "tell me what you were gonna ask.” 

“If I’m the best you ever had,” he says, and you’re still cheek-to-cheek but you can tell he’s rolling his eyes from the way his head tilts, using that stupid singsong fag voice he does too well for his own good— trying to make a joke out of it, which just lets you know he’s all the more serious. 

“Are you kidding me?" you say, feeling like a broken record with that phrase but you’re actually, legitimately a little confused. He shrugs, and your voice goes softer than it should. “Fuck, Gee. Of course you’re the best.” 

“You’re—” you go to say, but you can’t find the words to tell him how it all feels; his torso pressed against yours, warm enough to make you sweat (even though he’s chronically 4 degrees colder than you with his shitty old-man circulation); the soft, trembly press of his thighs against the sides of your waist, the smell of his hair, your fucking cock buried inside him as he rocks his hips in these little twitches, you don’t ever, ever want to do anything but this, only this for the rest of your life. Him and his hair and his hands and his eyes. That’s all you want. 

Thankfully, he doesn't wait for you to finish your aborted sentence. “Good,” he mutters, tightens his grip on your neck. “C’mon. Fuck me already.” 

You go “Yessir,” turn and press a wet, sloppy kiss to his cheek, shove him down. He sprawls out on the bed beneath you, the pulled-loose sheet puddling underneath his back, and you hike his legs up so they’re locked around your waist (and the surprised laugh-moan thing he does is more than music to your ears, if you could condense it down and drink it you would, how could he _ever_ think he’s less than everything to you?).

First real thrust of the night; you get to watch his eyes literally roll back in his head as your name drools out of his mouth like melted chocolate, like a candy bar left in the sun. 

Then; “I love you,” quiet. 

Your hand finds his and your fingers lace together.

“Yeah.”


End file.
